Now that his ankle was no longer painful, Chee was feeling drowsy. He let his head slide over against the upholstery. Yawned. How long had it been since he’d had a good sleep?
“Another coincidence,” Bernie agreed. “You have your doubts about that one, too?”
“Jim suggested the first crime might have been the cause of the second one,” Leaphorn said.
Chee was no longer sleepy. What did that mean? He couldn’t remember saying that.
“Ah,” Bernie said. “That’s going to take some complicated thinking. And that could go for the other ones, too. For example, seeing the abandoned truck and hearing about the robbery on the radio, Mr Timms saw a way to get rid of his airplane. He claimed it was stolen and filed an insurance claim.”
“It would be cause and effect that way, too, of course,” Leaphorn said. “Or perhaps the airplane was the reason the car was abandoned where it was, as the FBI originally concluded.”
Chee sat up. What the devil is Leaphom driving at?
“I’m afraid I’m lost,” Bernie said.
“Let me give you a whole new theory of the crime,” Leaphom said. “Let’s say it went like this. Someone up in this border country paid close attention to the 1998 crime, and it suggested to him the way to solve a problem. Actually two problems. It would supply him with some needed cash, and it would eliminate an enemy. Let’s say this person has connections with the militia, or the survivalists, or EarthFirsters, or any of the radical groups. Let’s say he recruits two or three men to help him, pretending they’re going after the money to finance their political cause. He gets Mr Timms involved. Either he leases the airplane in advance for a flight or he lets Timms in on the crime. Offers him a slice of the loot.”
“You’re talking about Everett Jorie,” Bernie said.
“I could be, yes,” Leaphorn said. “But in my proposal, Jorie has the role of the enemy to be eliminated.”
Chee cleared his throat. “Wait a minute, Lieutenant,” he said. “How about the suicide note? All that?”
Leaphorn looked around at Chee, gave him a wry look. “I had the advantage of being there. Seeing the man where he lived. Seeing what he read. His library. The sort of stuff he treasured, that made up his life. When I look back at it, it makes me think I’m showing my age. If you or Officer Manuelito had been the ones to find the body, to see it all, you would have gotten suspicious a long time before I did.”
Chee was thinking he still didn’t feel suspicious. But he said, “OK. How did it work?”
Bernie had slowed. “Is that where you want me to turn? That dirt road?”
“It’s rough, but it’s a lot shorter than driving down to 191 and then having to cut back.”
“I’m in favor of short,” Bernie said, and they were bumping off the pavement and onto the dirt.
“I’d guess this is the route the casino perps took,” Leaphorn said. “They must have known this mesa, living out here, and they must have known it led them into a dead-end situation." He laughed. “Another argument for my unorthodox theory of the crime. Having them turn off 191 and get lost would be too much of a coincidence for my taste.”
“Lieutenant,” Chee said, "why don’t you go ahead and tell us what happened at Jorie’s place.”
“What I think may have happened,” Leaphorn said. “Well, let’s say that our villain knocks on Jorie’s door, points the fatal pistol at Jorie, marches him into Jorie’s office, has Jorie sit in his computer chair, then shoots him point-blank so it will pass as a suicide. Then he turns on the computer, leans over the body, types out the suicide note, leaves the computer on, and departs the scene.”
“Why?” Chee asked. “Actually about four or five whys. I think I can see some of the motives, but some of it’s hazy.”
“Jorie was one of these fellows who thrive on litigation. And being a lawyer and admitted to the Utah bar, he could file all the suits he liked without it costing him much. He had two suits pending against our man. He was even suing Timms. Claimed his little airplane panicked his cattle, causing weight loss, loss of calves, so forth. Another suit claimed Timms violated his grazing lease with that unauthorized landing strip. But Timms isn’t my choice of villains. Another one of Jorie’s suits was aimed at canceling our villain’s Bureau of Land Management lease.”
“We’re talking about Mr Gershwin, of course,” Chee said. “Aren’t we?”
“In theory, yes,” Leaphorn said.
“All right,” Chee said. “What’s next?”
“Now he has eliminated one of his two problems - the enemy and his troublesome lawsuits. But not the other one.”
“The money,” Bernie said. “You mean he’d only get a third of that?”
“In my theory, I think it’s a little more complicated,” Leaphorn replied. He looked back at Chee. “You remember in that suicide note, how he told the FBI where to find his two partners, how he stressed that they had sworn never to be taken alive. If they were caught, they wanted to go into history for the number of cops they had killed.”
“His plan to eliminate them,” Chee said, and produced a wry laugh. “It probably would have worked. If those guys were militia members, they’d have their heads full of how the FBI behaved at Ruby Ridge and Waco. Frankly, if I was going in with the SWAT team, I think I’d be blazing away.”
“There must have seemed to be a flaw in that plan, though. Our villain had to wonder how the suicide note would be found. No one had any reason to suspect Jorie. Not a clue to any of the identities. So our villain solved that by finding himself a not-very-bright retired cop who he could trust to tip off the FBI without getting him involved in it.”
“I’ll be damned,” Chee said. “I wondered how you happened to be the one who found Jorie’s body.”
“What was the rush?” Bernie asked. “Sooner or later Jorie would have been missed. Somebody would have gone out to see about him. You know how people out here are.”
“My theoretical villain didn’t think he could wait for that. He didn’t want to risk the cops catching his partners before the cops knew about their plan to go down killing cops. Captured alive, they’d know just exactly who’d turned them in. They’d even the score and get off easier by testifying against him.”
“Yeah,” Bernie said. “That makes sense.”
Chee was leaning forward now. He tapped Leaphorn’s shoulder. “Look. Lieutenant, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Like I thought you weren’t very bright.”
“Matter of fact I wasn’t. He got almost exactly what he wanted out of me.”
Which was true, but Chee let that hang.
“The only thing that went wrong was his partners must have smelled something in the wind. They didn’t go home like they were supposed to—safe in the notion that the police hadn’t a clue to who they were. They didn’t wait for the SWAT teams to arrive and mow them down. They slipped away and hid somewhere.”
“The old Mormon mine,” Chee said. “So why didn’t the FBI find them there?”
“I don’t know,” Leaphorn said. “Maybe they were somewhere else when the federal agent took a look. Maybe they went home, as our villain probably told them to do, and then got uneasy and came back to Ironhand’s dad’s hideaway, to wait and see what happened. Or maybe the federals didn’t look hard enough. They’d have had no way of knowing about the entrance down in the canyon.”
“That’s true,” Chee said. “You couldn’t see it from the bottom. And, of course, we don’t know if the bottom mine connects to the top.”
Bernie laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I like to believe in legends. Even if they’re Ute legends.”
“I’ve just been along for the ride,” Chee said. “Just giving my ankle an airing. Now I’m wondering what the plan is. I hope it’s not that we walk up to that mine and order Baker and Ironhand to come out with their hands up.”
“No,” Leaphorn said, and laughed.
“Bernie would have to handle that all by herself.”
C
hee said. “You’re a civilian. I’m on sick leave or something. Let’s say I’m back on vacation.”
“But you did bring your pistol, I’ll bet,” Bernie said. “You did, didn’t you.?”
“I think I’ve got it here somewhere. You know the rules. Don’t leave home without it.”
“What I’d like to do is drop in on Mr Timms,” Leaphorn said. “I think we can get him to cooperate. And if he does, and if I’m guessing right, then Officer Manuelito gets on her radio and summons reinforcements.”
“Why couldn’t we call in for a backup and then -" Chee cut off the rest of that. He imagined Leaphorn explaining his theory to Special Agent Cabot - asking backup to check a mine the FBI had already certified free of fugitives. He imagined Cabot’s smirk. He switched to another question.
“Do you know Mr Timms?” he asked. Another stupid question. Of course he did. Leaphorn knew everyone in the Four Corners. At least everyone over sixty.
“Not well,” Leaphorn said. “Haven’t seen him for years. But I think we can get him to cooperate.”
Chee leaned back against the door and watched the desert landscape slide past. He imagined Timms telling them to go to hell. He imagined Timms ordering them off his property.
But then he relaxed. Retired or not, Leaphorn was still the Legendary Lieutenant.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Bernie let Unit 11 roll to a stop just in front of the Timms front porch, and they sat for the few moments required by empty-country courtesy to give the occupant time to get himself decent and prepare to acknowledge visitors. The door opened. A tall, skinny, slightly stooped man stood in the doorway looking out at them.
Leaphorn got out, Bernie followed, and Chee moved his ankle off the pillow and onto the floor. It hurt, but not much.
“Hello, Mr Timms,” Leaphorn said. “I wonder if you remember me.”
Timms stepped out onto the porch, the sunlight reflecting from his spectacles. “Maybe I do,” he said. “Didn’t you used to be Corporal Joe Leaphorn with the Navajo Police? Wasn’t you the one who helped out when that fellow was shooting at my airplane?”
“Yes sir,” Leaphorn said. “That was me. And this young lady is Officer Bernadette Manuelito.”
“Well, come on in out of the sun,” Timms said.
Chee couldn’t stand the thought of missing this. He pushed the car door open with his good foot, got his cane and limped across the yard, eyes on the ground to avoid an accident, noticing that the bedroom slipper he was wearing on his left foot was collecting sandburrs. “And this,” Leaphorn was saying, “is Sergeant Jim Chee. He and I worked together.”
“Yes sir,” Timms said, and held out his hand. The shake was Navajo fashion, less grip and more the gentle touch. An old-timer who knew the culture. And so nervous that the muscles in his cheek were twitching.
“Wasn’t expecting company, so I don’t have anything fixed, but I could offer you something cold to drink,” Timms said, ushering them into a small, dark room cluttered with the sort of old mismatched furniture one collects from Goodwill Industries shops.
“I don’t think we should accept your hospitality, Mr Timms,” Leaphorn said. “We came here on some serious business.”
“On that insurance claim,” Timms said. “I already sent off a letter canceling that. Already did that.”
“I’m afraid it’s a lot more serious than that,” Leaphorn said.
“That’s the trouble with getting old. You get so damned forgetful,” Timms said, talking fast. “I get up to get me a drink of water and by the time I get to the icebox I forget what I’m in the kitchen for. I flew that old L-19 down there to do some work, and then a fella offered me a ride home and I went off and left it and then we were hearing about the robbery on the radio and when I got home and saw the barn open and my airplane gone I just thought -"
Timms stopped. He stared at Leaphorn. So did Bernie. So did Chee.
“More than that?” Timms asked.
Leaphorn stood silent, eyes on Timms.
“What more?” Timms asked. He slumped down into an overstuffed armchair, looking up at Leaphorn.
“You remember that fellow who was doing the shooting when you flew over his place? Everett Jorie.”
“He quit doing that after you talked to him." Timms tried a smile, which didn’t come off. “I appreciated that. Now he’s turned into a bandit. Robbed that casino. Killed himself.”
“It looked like that for a while,” Leaphorn said.
Timms shrank into the chair. Raised his right hand to his forehead. He said, “You saying somebody killed him?”
Leaphorn let the question hang for a moment. Said: "How well do you know Roy Gershwin?”
Timms opened his mouth, closed it, and looked up at Leaphorn. Chee found himself feeling sorry for the man. He looked terrified.
“Mr Timms,” Leaphorn said, "you are in a position right now to help yourself a lot. The FBI isn’t happy with you. Hiding that airplane, reporting it stolen, that slowed down the hunt for those killers a lot. It’s not the sort of thing law enforcement forgets. Unless it has a reason to want to overlook it. If you’re helpful, then the police tend to say 'Well, Mr Timms was just forgetful.' If you’re not helpful, then things like that tend to go to the grand jury to let the jury decide whether you were what they call an accessory after the fact. And that’s not insurance fraud. That’s in a murder case.”
“Murder case. You mean Jorie?”
“Mr Timms,” Leaphorn said, "tell me about Roy Gershwin.”
“He was by here today,” Timms said. “You just missed him.”
Now it was Leaphorn’s turn to look startled. And Chee’s.
“What did he want? What did he say?”
“Not much. He wanted directions to that old Latter-Day-Saints mine. The place those Mormons used to dig their coal. And I told him, and he run right out of here. In a big hurry.”
“I think we’d better go,” Leaphorn said, and started for the door.
Timms looked sick. He made a move to rise, sank back.
“You telling me Gershwin killed that Everett Jorie? Don’t tell me that.”
Leaphorn and Bernie were already out the door, and as Chee limped after them he heard Timms saying, “Oh, God. I was afraid of that.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was easy enough to notice where Gershwin’s pickup had turned off the track, easy to see the path it had left through the crusted blowsand and broken clusters of snakeweed. Following the tracks was a different matter. Gershwin’s truck had better traction and much higher clearance than Bernie’s Unit 11 patrol car, which, under its official paint, was still a worn-out Chevy sedan.
It lost traction on the side of one of those great humps that wind erosion drifts around Mormon tea in desert climates. It slid sideways, rear wheels down the slope. Leaphorn checked Bernie’s instinct to gun the engine by a sharply whispered "No!”
“I think we’re about as close as we want to drive,” he said. “I’ll take a look.”
He took the unit’s binoculars out of the glove box, opened the door, slid out, walked up the hummock, stood for a minute looking and then walked back.
“The mine structure is maybe a quarter mile,” he said, pointing. “Over by the rimrock. Gershwin’s truck is about two hundred yards ahead of us. It looks empty. It also looks like he left it where it couldn’t be seen from the mine.”
“So now what?” Chee said. “Do we radio in and ask for some backup?” Even as he asked, he was wondering how that call would sound. Imagining the exchange. An area rancher had driven his pickup over to an old mine site. Why do you need backup? Because we think the casino perps are hiding there. Which mine? One the FBI has already checked out and certified as empty.
Leaphorn was looking at him, quizzically.
“Or what?” Chee concluded, thinking that surely Leaphorn wouldn’t propose they simply walk up, ask if anybody was inside and tell them to come out and surrender.
“We’re on their
blind side,” Leaphorn said. “Why don’t we get closer? See if we can learn what’s going on.”
“You brought your piece,” Leaphorn said. “I’m going to borrow Officer Manuelito’s pistol. Officer Manuelito, I want you to stay here close to the radio but get up on the hump there where you can see what’s going on. We may need you to make some fast contacts. I’ll borrow your sidearm.”
“Give you my gun?” Bernie said, sounding doubtful.
Chee was easing himself out of the car, thinking that the Legendary Lieutenant had forgotten he was a civilian. He had unilaterally rescinded his retirement and resumed his rank.
“Your pistol,” he said, holding out his hand. Bernie’s expression switched from doubtful to determined.
“No, sir. That’s one of the first things we learn. We keep our pistols.”
Leaphorn stared at her. Nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Hand me the rifle.”
She pulled it out of the rack and handed it to him, butt first. He checked the chamber.
“In fact, Manuelito, I want you to get into radio contact now. Tell ’em where we are, precisely as you can, tell them that Sergeant Chee is checking an old mine building and we may need some support. Tell them you’re going to be out of the car a few minutes to back him up and ask them to stand by. Then I want you on top of that hummock up there watching what’s going on. Doing what needs to be done.”
“Sergeant Chee should stay here,” Bernie said. “He can’t walk that far. I’ll go with you. He can handle the radio.”
Chee used his sergeant voice. “Manuelito, you’ll do the radio. That’s an order.”
Whatever the reason, the excitement, the adrenaline pumping, perhaps the distracting notion that in a few minutes an award-winning Green Beret sniper might be shooting him, Chee limped up the hummock slope hardly aware of his bandaged ankle or the sand in his bedroom slipper. The ruined mine structure came into view, the back side of what he had photographed from the helicopter. As Leap-horn had said, this side presented only a windowless stone wall.
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